Thesis: To consider what the chance intersection of ideal beauty and intellectual confusion would mean in determining the fate of Earth. Phase 1: While touring San Francisco, I stayed at the Sir Francis Drake. The bartenders were adequate. Phase 2: I began a blog. I learned romance might exist, but depends upon whether a man and a woman can tread the maze individually and reach its center at the exact same instant in time. Phase 3: The center comes and goes as if it were a mirage.

Monday, July 27, 2015

Those are footprints on the street, thousands of
them, made during a light snowfall on the night of February 15, 2010, on Castle
Square of Old Town in Warsaw, Poland. I took the photograph from the third floor of what I designated as The Apartment -- a temporary home, as one might describe it, for a few months during a brief interlude in my life. In a sense, the countless footprints in the photograph are symbolic of the many wandering, often aimless, steps I have taken searching for the right place to be. You might recognize the photograph since I have used it before to accompany a post. The music with this post is from a group called Soft Cell. I stumbled across it on YouTube a few days ago. I cannot remember the last time I heard this production .... it has been a while, that is for sure. I like the sound, the beat, the rhythm, maybe the message, and I hope you will, too.

You cannot go to a place which does not exist

In 1940, the American writer Thomas Wolfe wrote the words, "You Can't Go Home Again." He did not stop with that sentence until it had formed a complete novel. I suppose ever since then there has been debate whether
a person can or cannot. Some say Wolfe disproved the title of his own story, but we will not enter into that argument. I
have not read this book. I have tried a couple of times, but never made it through. I
think it is because the title frightens me. A few others among Wolfe's works of
fiction, notably, "Look Homeward, Angel," I have read. Magnificent titles, do
you not agree ?? I passed through his hometown almost my accident once upon a
time, Asheville, North Carolina, and saw the house he grew up in and which is a
primary location in "Look Homeward ...."

That was the point of entry ....

Next, I happened across a photograph on one of my computers, the photograph above, which I have used in a previous post sometime way back when. It was taken from the window of the third floor apartment overlooking Castle Square of Old Town in Warsaw, Poland, while I lived there in 2010. To be more precise, the photograph was taken at 03:12 A.M. local time on February 15, 2010. It was a nice night, and I was very happy for a few months living in that apartment and exploring that city with a sweet, beautiful young lady as my companion, and experiencing a life very different in many ways from the life I was accustomed to in mid-America, USA.

That was the point of exit ....

I have a hometown, but I have not lived there since three months after turning eighteen and three days after completing high school. After that, I did not even visit the town for years and years and years, although I had loved it as a boy. You see where I am going? I really have no home, only a place of residence. So, I need to go back to a few places, not to set up camp, but simply to try to enjoy again the feelings I felt
there once upon a time.

The point where entry and exit collide ....

This autumn there finally will be a journey of
sorts again, and I hope to begin it in Warsaw in the place -- The Duval -- where I stayed for the first fifteen days upon arrival and before renting The Apartment. I had the Japanese Room at The Duval back then, and liked it. This will be for a week or two, with, maybe, a run to Krakow. And, maybe, another run north to the "Wolf's Lair." (I am a history addict, you may recall, and the name suits my persona, in a way.) Then, I want to go to Germany (which will be new for me), then return to Giverny in France and, probably, to Paris .... then "home" to America, in a manner of speaking, I guess .... in any case, back to the place I am hanging out for now .... or .... or .... or ??I have had a few low-key, long-weekend excursions (all involving work) here and there during the past few years which observant readers of my posts might have recognized from photographs and/or words, but nothing meaningful or a significant. Remember? Living ten minutes from an international airport comes in handy.

Essentially, as you might suppose, right now I want a bit of the new, but mostly to see if once-traveled streets and gardens bring back a feeling of -- for lack of a better word .... a feeling of contentment -- as I "look homeward" and elsewhere in search for a sense of belonging. Silly, hah ?? Silly or whatever, life is ours to waste away as we wish, and I wish to use some of mine in search for my own concept of a "holy grail" -- whether it be person, place or thing .... or non-existent futility. So, I am thinking of staying in Europe from sometime in October until the New Year arrives in this ongoing episode of "The Search."

Anyway .... not as a pass, a proposal or a plan, but if anyone cares to meet for dinner and drinks in Warsaw or in Germany (Berlin, maybe, but I am open there and have other places in Germany I wish to see); or at Missolonghi, the last stop in this life for George Gordon / Lord Byron (You did read my last post, did you not ??); or in the Giverny of Claude Monet (Is October too late in the autumn to enjoy the outdoors there ??); or in Paris or in Neverland or .... hmmmm ....
Anyway, again .... it might be best to speak up soon if you are interested and to begin making plans to skip out of work for a few days or to arrange for a dog/cat/?? sitter or .... or .... or ?? Remember, you only live once (according to pedestrian philosophy), and
life goes on with or without you ....

Wednesday, July 22, 2015

This oil on canvas by Louis Edouard Fournier is entitled, "The Funeral of Shelley," and was completed in 1889, sixty-seven years after Percy Bysshe Shelley drowned in the Bay of Lerici off the coast of
Italy. The painting, obviously, is not based on the personal recollections of Fournier, but, rather, on accounts of the funeral pyre ceremony. It is located in the Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool, England. The painting has its inaccuracies, including the presence of Mary Shelley. Due to customs of the times, a widow did not attend the funeral of her husband. The three men, from the left, are Edward Trelawney, Leigh Hunt and George Gordon / Lord Byron. Strange as it may seem, I have read so much about the lives of these individuals and the death of Shelley that I feel like I am standing next to the painter watching the events transpire. Research + imagination = tantalizing dreams.

(Editor's Note: This is the second
segment to the unpublished post(s) of February 2009. Reading this portion now, with six and one-half years having come and gone since it was written, it seems sort of mystifying to me, even a bit silly. I wish I could recall the reasons why I tied it
in with the first piece about the decline of journalism. I know that at the
time I thought there was more truth to be found -- quite literally -- in a
piece of poetry than in a newspaper or in a television newscast or in a
political blog. I believe such is even more the case today. Beyond that, since
these words and thoughts were written less than a month after I had begun "San
Francisco," it seems obvious in reading this piece that among the things I was
doing was adding another element in my attempt to introduce myself to anyone
who might pass by here and pause to read here. Perhaps, most symbolically
unique is the fact that it was on July 11 when I "re-discovered" this forgotten post, with its words about Emily Dickinson and her poem about death, and with its mention about the deaths of George Gordon / Lord Byron and Percy Shelley .... and, July 11 was the same day I published my post about dying, death, divine comedies and my burial. Finally, once again the music was part of the original, unpublished 2009 post, but an illustration had not yet been selected to accompany it back then.)

Discovering Emily & rescuing
Percy's heart

I have no idea how many people browse the "sea of blogs," either idly or in a pattern searching for common interests, but it really is a fascinating pastime. My brief periods of exploration the past few days have centered on poetry.

A few sites I have visited are primarily dedicated to one or more well-known poets. The other day, for example, I found one where Emily Dickinson was featured. There was a photograph of Ms. Dickinson. Although one of my college majors was English, I recall rarely ever seeing an
actual photo of her before. I wonder why ....

The lead poem on the page was entitled, "The Chariot," when first published in 1890
after Dickinson's own death. This is it:

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,

And I had put away

My labor, and my leisure too,

For his civility.

Where children strove

At recess, in the ring;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.

Or rather, he passed us;

The dews grew quivering and chill,

For only gossamer my gown,

My tippet only tulle.

We paused before a house that seemed

A swelling of the ground;

The roof was scarcely visible,

The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries, and yet
each

Feels shorter than the day

I first surmised the horses' heads

Were toward eternity.

The simplicity, yet the depth of those few words, is breathtaking. I think I have
gained a new and a greater appreciation for Ms. Dickinson through my exploration
of the blogs.

My own studies of verse have revolved mostly around the British poets of the 17th/18th/19th centuries. Byron, Shelley, Keats, Tennyson, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Milton, Pope, Donne and their brethren, to name a few. English major snobbery, I suppose.

The only recent American poet I ever took a close look at was James Dickey, and only then because I consider his novel, "Deliverance," to be a classic -- a heroic tale told in contemporary style and language. Besides that, it is about canoeing and the "zen of archery," and there you are talking my language. So, if I like his novel, it could be I would like his poetry, too. Right? Yes, right. I do like it.Speaking of novels and British poets, may I recommend another of my favorite works of fiction, "The Missolonghi Manuscript," by Frederic Prokosch. George Gordon / Lord Byron spent the last few months of his life in Missolonghi in Greece, where he died
at the age of thirty-six in 1824. This novel is presented as if it were the memoirs of the dying man, written as he reviews his entire life. Byron, in addition to being a poet of the first order, literally was the No. 1 "rock star" of his time among all circles of social celebrities in Britain and on the Continent. Prokosch, incidentally, was a Wisconsin native who spent most of his adult life in Europe and was sort of a man of mystery. He is a character worth researching in his own right and a writer worth reading.Among the ingredients of the novel are accounts of the death by drowning of Percy Bysshe Shelley and his funeral pyre ceremony, at which Shelley's heart was snatched from the flames by Edward Trelawny as a macabre memento. Trelawny gave Shelley's heart to Leigh Hunt, who later gave it to the widow, Mary Shelley. The heart was entombed sixty-seven years later in the coffin with Shelley's son, Percy Florence Shelley, upon his death.It strikes me as a book with something
for everyone who has a taste for the truly literary, and it might lead you deeper into the
lives and works of Percy and Mary Shelley and George Gordon / Lord Byron, if you
have not discovered them before now.

Friday, July 17, 2015

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia: "Yellow journalism, or the yellow press, is a type of journalism that presents little or no legitimate well-researched news and instead uses eye-catching headlines to sell more newspapers." Addendum From Fram: While "yellow journalism" began as a descriptive term of dishonest reporting in newspapers, the practice gradually became even more evident in television newscasts, particularly in cable newscasts. And, today, political websites and blogs are increasingly becoming the primary purveyors of opinion and just plain lies in the guise of factual, verifiable news. Cartoons, you might observe, can be quite an effective way to point out blatant yellow journalism when and where it occurs and the obvious lack of journalistic integrity so often found among members of the media these days. It usually happens when reporters begin to think of themselves as celebrities rather than as journalists. Honest journalists are becoming an endangered species. (Editor's Note: What we have here is the first of two posts meant to run in proximity to one another which I wrote in February 2009,
but, for whatever reason, did not post them then. I can no longer recall what was on my mind when I wrote them, much less why I did not publish them. I suppose I was too preoccupied thinking about California girls and European girls .... you know how it goes. Moving right along, this is the first segment of what was written back then and left to gather dust .... or whatever gathers within computers. The second piece will arrive soon. Since election politics are swinging into full gear in the United States, the words seem just as relevant now as they were then. Uffff .... how many times has the earth spun us round and round since February 2009, and the words politicians/journalists/ liars too often still remain synonymous? A rhetorical question, but worth thinking about our mental spin cycle. Incidentally, the music, "The Grand Illusion," by Styx, is the music I originally selected to accompany this post way, way back then -- six and one-half years ago. The thought of the span of time between then and now numbs me. The cartoon is not from then; Barack Obama had been in office only about a month when these thoughts were written, and the media adoration of him was just beginning to enter "warp drive.")

Candidates & reporters: Do not
trust either

How many times have you voted for a
candidate for government office because you had "trust" in the person? I never
have.

Perhaps that goes back to cynicism.
Most certainly, it goes to the role and responsibility of professional journalists. I once was among their numbers, and I have "inside" experience upon which to form my viewpoints.
Journalists are (at least, once were) trained to be skeptics, doubters,
investigators, fact seekers and objective to the best of their abilities. It is
very obvious some journalists are better at these things than others.

Television reporting, by-in-large, is
pretty pathetic. Many newspaper reporters are more suited for producing fiction
than for pursuing the facts. This has never been truer than it is today. Over
here, for example, stands a Republican candidate. Over there, stands a Democrat
candidate. Each is presenting his political point of view. Inside that view are
personal beliefs, personal ambitions, dollars and cents, pressures from
constituents, lobbyists and friends, and a host of other elements. Between them
stands the reporter. How can the average citizen learn which candidate is
telling the "truth" and being "honest" when the reporter has abandoned
traditional journalistic precepts and is allowing his personal feelings to
enter the story?

Journalists and politicians must
maintain an adversarial role. That does not mean the relationship cannot be
friendly, cordial and polite, and even have a sort of friendship exist between
individuals in the two camps. It does mean that the journalist and the
politician both need to understand it is a reporter's obligation to check the
facts behind every word that comes out of a politician's mouth. Increasingly,
this no longer is the case. Increasingly, fewer facts are emerging from the
spin. Increasingly, there is no one left to trust. Increasingly, people have no
choice but to follow candidates blindly.

Returning to the beginning of this
commentary: I never have voted for a candidate because I "trust" him or her. I
vote for the person who I think is best suited for the task at hand in terms of
the conditions that exist at that particular point in time, and this is
becoming a more difficult task with every election due to the disintegration of
the American journalist.

Saturday, July 11, 2015

What you see before you is a work by Domenico di Michelino entitled, "Dante and the Three Kingdoms," done in 1465. It is oil on canvas and can be seen at the Museo dell'Opera del Duomo in Firenze. Look at the book held in the painting by Durante degli Alighieri -- more often simply called Dante. If the gods of actual art and the politically correct of infinite idiocy will forgive me, I will offer a recent translation of the words shown on the pages of that book. They seem to be a foretelling of a time in the future and read: "We are reasonably certain that Fram is somewhere on the grounds or in the building, but his present whereabouts cannot be ascertained. He seems to move around with some frequency. We will update you when we have more to report, and, rest assured, we are confident that he will not escape from here." Finally, the music. I have used this particular video a few times since beginning this blog. Boston is my favorite band. I fell in love with this song and the guitar riff the first time I heard them; I was driving on Interstate 90 from one side of southern Minnesota to the other. Claude Monet is my favorite Impressionist. Together, this mix of music and art form an insurmountable blend of sound and image.

An observation by the Lycian prince Glaucusin
one of Homer's timeless
masterpieces: "The Iliad"

"Why ask my lineage? Like the generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men. Now
the wind scatters the old leaves across the earth, now the living timber bursts
with the new buds and spring comes round again. And so with men: as one
generation comes to life, another dies away."

A
couple of lines spoken by Thomas Hudson

in
one of Ernest Hemingway's

sort
of forgotten novels:

"Islands
in the Stream"

"I
would rather have a good Marine, even a ruined Marine, than anything in the
world when there are chips down."

"We
wait always for something that does not come, he thought. But it is easier
waiting with the wind than in a calm or with the capriciousness and malignancy
of squalls."

Who, me? In sort of a morbid mood, I guess

I still am into quotes .... for a while,
anyway.

I have been re-reading a few books. Homer and Hemingway most recently, you might correctly surmise.
It occurred to me that I probably would have read three or four times as many
books as I have if I did not re-read so many. It is a pleasant dilemma to
debate within .... would it have been wiser, more beneficial, to have read more
books than to have re-read so many? Well, it is an easy problem to resolve
because, obviously, there is no right answer, no definitive way to resolve the
question.

I also have been preoccupied with death, and looking for books which lead me in and out of that mode. Who better than Homer and Hemingway? That preoccupation comes and goes, rises and falls. I suspect it does with many people. The latest "spell" for me began during a conversation with a neighbor about my mother's death in September 2012. Two months after her death, a man who lived kitty-corner across the street died. Two months after that, a man kitty-corner across the street in the opposite direction died. The neighbor told me he believed in the adage that death comes in threes, and he insisted these incidents proved him right. Hmmmm .... well, maybe ....From there, my mind began to drift.
My father, who I never really knew, died a few decades ago and my step-father, who was among the reasons I left home three days after I finished high school and went off to my first war, has been gone a while, too. I am an only child. I am it, in a generational sense, a fact which lurks in my id and even emerges in dreams.

Then .... then .... then, there are other
deaths in other places and other times which become little different than a
memory from a dream or, after a time, seem like just another winter snowfall
which gradually melts away and is forever gone.

My former wife No. 2, who was given a
death sentence from the clutches of inoperable cancer a few years ago, but beat
it through simultaneous intense chemotherapy and intense radiation and greater
will power than I could ever gather, has had a re-occurrence. The survival question
is in doubt again, which means the thought never leaves my mind entirely. I can only imagine what it is doing to/in her mind.

Anyway, you never know when the reaper might come. Right?

So, I have not only had death on my
mind, but I have been planning for it in both realistic and symbolic senses. Seem
morbid? It seems practical to me. Death is difficult enough for family members
without having to make decisions about funeral and burial details. I know that
from experience. I want to make certain that when "my time comes," all my
children have to do is to call my buddy, Morrie, at the funeral home and say, launch
"Plan A: Double Check My Pulse First, Please." If I happen to be out of the country when the big
moment takes place, "Plan B: One-Way Economy Flight," is neatly typed, ready and waiting in the contingency drawer
of Morrie's desk. I am not kidding, although the instructions have titles considerably less colorful. All I have left undone is to pick a spot in one of
five likely cemeteries, four of which have family plots. The other is sort of a military "hangout."But, I enjoy being unpredictable. Depending upon circumstances at the time and my mood, I might emulate one of my favorite writers, Ambrose Bierce, and simply disappear .... although, unlike him, I would not vanish into Mexico. The thought has crossed my mind that it would be fascinating to end up in a place like a crevasse on the Greenland Ice Cap. That way, some day Ötzi The Iceman might be joined by Fram The Iceman and we could compare notes and exchange stories of our days and our times.

That was the realistic element. On
the more fanciful side of my personality and symbolic side of my beliefs, I
want to be put into the earth ready for whatever awaits. I have a list. On it, I
have a few specific books I wish to accompany me in the casket, a couple of handguns,
some ammunition, a Marine Corps combat knife and dog tag. I do not wish to "depart" without a stuffed rabbit from my early childhood "who" my mother kept and "who" now has his own room in this house. His name is Blackie, by the way, earned from spending many afternoons in a sandbox. I
know what clothing I want to be wearing and what I want in the way of survival gear stuffed
into the bottom of the casket. My favorite canoe paddle is on the list. I want
my silver Thor's Hammer around my neck (I am still looking for a gold one, if you know where one might be purchased.), and my 1876 dime on its silver chain.Of course, I want a bottle a brandy, a bottle of cognac and a bottle of Benedictine, as well as a box or two of cigars with plenty of old-fashioned stick matches.

I could go on, but you get my drift. I am not assuming I will require any of these items in the great beyond, but,
remember, part of my work experience has been to write contingency plans for everything and
anything -- and, I was most thorough at it. I am thinking it simply makes me feel good to do these things, and it might cause an archaeologist to let out a scream of joy and happiness a few thousand years
from now when "she" rips into my tomb and hits paydirt. I know I will be wearing a smile .... like Scaramouche .... Morrie will see to that in case I am unable ....

What is beneath that man-made hill in the
photograph is a concrete/timber/coral reinforced bunker and command post on the
Pacific Ocean island of Betio in the Tarawa Atoll of the Gilbert Islands as it looked in November 1943. First
Lieutenant Alexander Bonnyman is said to be among those at the pinnacle of the hill as he
and other Marines with the 2nd Marine Division storm the Japanese stronghold. A
photograph of Bonnyman is inset at the upper right. Bonnyman died during that
assault, and received one of four Medals of Honor awarded for heroic action at
Tarawa. The bodies of Bonnyman and thirty-five other "lost" Marines
have just been located on the island after years of persistent searching. A
link to copy and paste which leads to details regarding the search for and the discovery of the bodies is
included below. It is a fascinating story, especially because it involves a
father, a brother and finally a grandson who never quit the search for Lt.
Bonnyman. The photograph was taken on the second day of the battle by Marine
Corps Warrant Officer Obie Newcomb, Jr.

This
was before my Marine Corps time, but any time since the beginning of the Corps is my time,
too, in a symbolic sense if not an actual sense. More than a thousand Marines
were killed and more than two thousand wounded during the three-day ordeal which was Tarawa,
and all but a handful, nearly five thousand, of the island defenders were
killed.

I
used to have dreams about this place when I was a boy, this battle at Tarawa in
November 1943. My dreams took me to the library and books there are how I began
to learn about it. I have mentioned these dreams in past posts. I have read new
books about the battle when they are published and watched television documentaries, and I even have met and talked with a few guys who were there. It is experiences such as these inexplicable dreams from my boyhood which always circle
me back to William Shakespeare and to the words of Hamlet: "There are more
things ...."

Friday, July 3, 2015

What it all means ... or should mean: There are many things I would like to write here, but they would not all fit in a reasonable amount of space and I probably would drift off into other thoughts before I finish. But, I must start somewhere .... the event in the photograph, at times, is used for political or worse purposes. That has happened just within the past few days. The event in the photograph is sacred to many of us and should not be used for commercial or crass purposes because countless individuals have died defending the American flag and the rights and the freedoms it represents. The photograph, you probably recognize, comes from the World War II battle at Iwo Jima. Nearly seven thousand American marines and sailors died there and another twenty thousand were wounded. Many, many more Japanese soldiers died fighting under their own banner. Six men are
in the photograph; three of them were killed within days of this flag raising moment atop Mount Suribachi. It should not be difficult to comprehend the significance of the event and of the instant in time the photograph depicts -- the instant all six still were alive and looked forward to life and living, but were willing to fight and to give up their lives in defense of liberty for all.

A few living & breathing words from long ago

Tomorrow is the Fourth of July -- Independence Day -- the day the
Declaration of Independence was signed and published. It happened in 1776, when a small group of men announced to the world that thirteen American colonies no longer would live under tyranny and would be free of rule from Great Britain. The words in the declaration, written by Thomas Jefferson, are sacred, too, just like the event in the photograph. If you do not believe that, it is your loss. A segment of the declaration is printed here. Read those words, think about them, try to actually absorb their meaning and their significance. Civilizations come and go, just as we individuals come
and go. The words in the declaration may or may not last forever, but, for now, they are the words
which allow each and every one of us who lives in the United States of America to begin our journey doing what we do, being who we are, dreaming what we dream. Those who desecrate either the flag or the words are free to do so, but in doing so they desecrate themselves and memory of those who died for the freedoms we and they enjoy ....
and, unfortunately, too many in this county today either do not understand that fact
or do not care.

I hope you have a pleasant Independence Day, and remember and
appreciate how it began, why it began and the price so many have paid since it began so that
you are living free today and in pursuit of your own concept of
happiness. Now, here are some of the words from the Declaration of Independence as published that first Independence Day on July 4, 1776. You might wish to read the complete document when you have finished this segment:

We
hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal; that they
are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; that among these
are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness; that, to secure these rights,
governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the
consent of the governed; that whenever any form of government becomes
destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish
it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles,
and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to
effect their safety and happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that
governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes;
and accordingly all experience hath shown that mankind are more disposed to
suffer, while evils are sufferable than to right themselves by abolishing the
forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and
usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object, evinces a design to reduce
them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw
off such government, and to provide new guards for their future security ....

Thursday, July 2, 2015

I have opinions (you may have observed) and many of them are
politically incorrect. So, why not? Here is another.

It seems to me many of the current candidates to become
president of the United States are too old to undertake the stress and the
strain of such a monumental task. Personally, and in a very general sense, I think no one who
would be over age sixty when he or she takes office should be in the race. A
year here or a year there might or might not make a difference some of the time or even most of the time, but I think it
is a valid point to consider.

Here are some examples of candidates and potential candidates
and the age they would be at the time they take office in 2017:

That said (to sound like a politician), I consider myself to be
well-mannered and polite, but, as I implied in the beginning, political
correctness means nothing to me. This is especially true when it defies common
sense. It is time to advise these individuals -- respectfully, of course -- to
go home and write their memoirs and accept the fact that their time has come
and gone in terms of being able to excel in the role of president of the United
States.

Really, to be running for president at their age, these guys
simply are too full of themselves to be concerned about the rest of us.

My own notion, in a politically incorrect manner of thought, is that age fifty to sixty
would be the right combination of many factors to include physical strength and
intellectual peak and emotional balance to handle the most challenging job on
the face of the earth.

As a final word, after having watched the masquerade of Barack
Obama during the past seven years, I would also suggest all the mirrors in the White
House be removed so that the next president spends his or her time confronting
the challenges at hand rather that practicing his or her smile in the looking
glass while whispering, "Mirror, mirror on the wall" ....Did you notice? Even Jimmy Carter gives the "man who would be king" a failing grade in foreign affairs. Whoops .... my apologies to James Bond .... strike that .... I mean to Sean Connery, for the film allusion ....

You do recall, I assume, that Caesar was assassinated (a romantic term for murdered) on March 15, 44 BCE. Some say Calpurnia had a premonition about the Ides of March and
warned Caesar to be on his guard or, better yet, to stay at home.

William Shakespeare: "Julius Caesar"

Act II, Scene 2, Lines 1027-1030

Calpurnia speaks:

Alas, my lord,
Your wisdom is consumed in confidence.
Do not go forth to-day: call it my fear
That keeps you in the house, and not your own.

But, like many a husband, Caesar ignored his wife and went on his merry
way and when he arrived at the Curia of Pompey .... well, you know the rest.

Those who have been here in the past know July is the month of
marriages and divorces for me. Twice married; twice divorced. Always in July; all four events. For a long while, I
assumed that, like Caesar, I would have three wives and, jokingly, I have, at
times, said the third would undoubtedly outlast me. Now, however, the doubt is beginning to be transformed into wondering if there ever will be a third Mrs. Fram.

I also have said that if I
were to marry again, it would have to be in the same segment of the calendar as were the first two marriages -- in July. You see, I prefer a neat, tidy, orderly world with both rhyme and reason and just a bit of irony. I suppose I like to tempt fate, too.

Well, July 2015 has arrived and unless an angel appears on the horizon very, very
soon, another year will pass me by and leave me still footloose and fancy-free. If said angel should appear, I hope she will be like Calpurnia and tip me off when in her dreams, ".... ghosts did shriek and squeal about the streets." I am pretty sure I would heed her advice and stay at home.

The fascinating element to me at this point in time is that
having been without a permanent companion for eight years, I am becoming
adjusted, accustomed and accepting to/of being alone. In many regards, being a "lone ranger" makes
life much easier. The fundamental question is whether easier, in these circumstances, means
better or means worse.So, we shall see what the stars have designed for me between now and .... now and when ....

Something special ....

Sort of About Me

Bachelor of Arts with a double major in English (= literature) and history (= reality). Master of Arts in literature. Once upon a time, U.S. Marine Corps = Semper Fidelis. These things pretty much explain everything there is to know about me.
Other than that, ask, if you actually are curious .... I like to drift where the current takes me within this endless sea of blogs, read what others write in their blogs, observe, learn, question and, hopefully, understand, while offering a few comments of my own along the way .... by the way, the photo of me actually is me .... was me .... will be me .... hmmmm ....

Romance, from Fram

I discoveredRomance might yet exist,but it depends uponwhether a manand a womancan tread the maze,individually,and reach its centerat the same momentin time.

The Actual Instant of Love, from Fram

I am a jealous guy, of the sort John Lennon sang about. Any man who says he is not a jealous guy either has no genuine depth of feelings for the woman he is saying it about or is a liar. I can remember very distinctly, for example, when my feelings for my wife vanished. It happened in an instant. When love vanished, so did jealousy.

Actual love happens in an instant, I believe, although it does not always seem to be that way. I am not talking about "love at first sight," but, rather, "love at first instant." This means two people might have known each other for weeks, even for years, before the "instant" occurs. It comes with a single sentence spoken by one, or a single action taken by one, that strikes the other like lightning.

Affection grows; love is born. Love also disappears in an instant, I believe, although it does not always seem to happen that way. Incidental to my point, I do not believe in "love at first sight." That is no more than simple, physical or emotional attraction, which is the cause of countless and never-ending problems.

Happiness is momentary, from Fram

When I was age eighteen, a wise, old man of twenty-six told me that happiness is a momentary thing. It might last for minutes or days or weeks or, sometimes, even for a few years. But, like life itself, happiness is a transitory thing and, like fate, it is capricious. At some point along the road, I came to realize this wise, old man had been right.

The Three Sorts of Friends ....

Though friendships differ endless in degree,The sorts, methinks, may be reduced to three.Acquaintance many, and Conquaintance few;But for Inquaintance I know only two --The friend I've mourned with, and the maid I woo!

Time retains ....

Time retainsits sacred right to meddlein each earthly affair.Still, time's unbounded powerthat makes a mountain crumble,moves seas, rotates a star,won't be enough to tearlovers apart: they aretoo naked, too embraced,too much like timid sparrows.

Old age is, in my book,the price that felons pay,so don't whine that it's steep:you'll stay young if you're good.Suffering doesn't insult the body.Death? It comes in your sleep,exactly as it should.

When it comes, you'll be dreamingthat you don't need to breathe;that breathless silence isthe music of the darkand it's part of the rhythmto vanish like a spark.

Yesterday is History ....

Yesterday is mystery --Where it is TodayWhile we shrewdly speculateFlutter both away.

Emily Dickinsonpoet"Yesterday is History"

Never the answers

The most interesting thing in the world is another human being who wonders, suffers and raises the questions that have bothered him to the last day of his life, knowing he will never get the answers.

Will Duranthistorian, philosopher, teacher

The equality of man

Those who hammer their guns into plows will plow for those who do not.

Thomas Jeffersonpresident, patriot, free thinker

The audience

Better to write for yourselfand have no publicthan to writefor the publicand have no self.

Cyril Connollywriter, editor, literary critic

I am free

I am free, no matter what rules surround me. If I find them tolerable, I tolerate them; if I find them too obnoxious, I break them. I am free because I know that I alone am morally responsible for everything I do.Robert Heinleinscience fiction writerphilosopher

Marine Corps Forever, from Fram

To all Marines, those among the dead, those who still live, those yet to be born: Semper Fidelis, to the end of time ....

Have gun .... will travel

Once upon a time: "She said, There is no reason ...."

Time & again ....

Time .... he's waiting in the wings .... he speaks of senseless things .... but, if you could heal a broken heart, wouldn't time be out to charm you?

Voluspo 28-29

Alone I sat when the Old One sought me .... The terror of gods, and gazed in mine eyes .... "What hast thou to ask? why comest thou hither? .... Othin, I know where thine eye is hidden" .... Deep in the wide-famed well of Mimir .... Mead from the pledge of Othin each morn .... Does Mimir drink: would you know yet more? ....

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Magic Girl from Fram

I look at her face, I stare into her eyes.She is there yet, the girl from long ago.Her smile has dimmed only a slight degree,but her face shows scars from tears,a lonely expression there for all to see.

I sense her there, the girl from long ago,I know she is she, and once she was for me,but how do I know what is left inside her?Is she magic still, or has life changed her?Can a woman return, a magic girl to be?